


Kings Under Thieves (Part 1 of the Trilogy)

by sarahgene12



Series: Modern Valvert Trilogy [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, drugged drinks, part of a series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-21
Updated: 2016-09-21
Packaged: 2018-08-16 14:12:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8105470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahgene12/pseuds/sarahgene12
Summary: Part One of a trilogy. Javert is a uptight cop and his mayor is very cute. It's Christmas and Javert has some hidden talents. Valjean just hopes he isn't found out.





	

What a sight it made!  
Twelve of his finest officers stood proud in a row, uniforms starched, buttons shined. Even nineteen year old Coufeyrac, green as ever in his second week, looked the part of a real policeman; he was a pistol for sure, and according to traveling word was disinclined to make time for paperwork, but you couldn’t see that now.  
Chief Javert of course was impeccable, but he’d been that way for twenty years. He stood now at the end of the line, chest out and back rigid, eyes set dead ahead. His hair was well past grey and inching ever more rapidly towards white, and there were deep crow’s feet by his eyes. But damned if he wasn’t the first in the precinct every morning, the first on the scene, the last to leave before the janitors came at 4. The man was approaching fifty, and had worked hard to get where he was now.  
Mayor Madeleine knew all he was permitted to know about his police chief: that his parents had both been jailbirds at the prison upstate, and that he had held every job with law enforcement possible before arriving here, from security guard to small town cop to warden. He was a proud man, and had never accepted a single award given to him by the city. And he never seemed to go home.  
“You’ve made a fine team of officers out of these men, Inspector. Our city will sleep soundly tonight.” The praise set Javert’s shoulders even straighter, if it were possible. The mayor smiled at him but the inspector did not see it; his eyes were cast chivalrously downward.  
“Thank you sir. There are good men under my command. I can only hope for improvement.”  
What was it that frightened the man so? He had a commanding presence, physically as well as morally; he could silence a whole squad room with just the manifestation of his shadow across the floor, and even Coufeyrac steered clear of him when he was onto a lead. And yet when it came to his employer, the man shrank into himself like a child, playing at being eager to please, practically begging for approval.  
“One can hope of course, but you’ve done well, Chief. Enjoy your successes; it will make you a much happier man.”  
An expression of surprise scampered across the aging inspector’s face, hidden away quickly, but not before the mayor had seen it. The astonishment quickly turned into a grimace of chastisement, and Mayor Madeleine mentally kicked himself.  
“Of course, sir. I will certainly try.”  
Deputies Coufeyrac and Grantaire were at the opposite end of the formation. The two boys had grown up together, and had joined the force at the city’s mercy; college had not been an option for either, and if they hadn’t gone through the academy, Chief Javert might’ve ended up arresting them rather than training them.  
Grantaire was the slighter of the two, shorter than most of his fellow officers and wily, with a wiry head of black curly hair. He was lightning-quick when he wanted to be, though a bit harder to motivate than his partner, at least when it came to any work done behind a desk.  
Coufeyrac was a strapping young man, over six feet tall and with a strong and solid build that nearly rivaled that of his chief. He shot with more accuracy on the range than even the more veteran officers, and his dark curls and heavy brow made he and the shorter boy look almost like brothers.  
The boys had straightened out impressively in their short time on the force, but they were still barely twenty, and they were growing restless standing in formation. Their mayor moved quickly from each man, nodding to each and enquiring with Deputy Montparnasse on the well-being of his wife and new little girl, who had been born the day before.  
“They are both doing well, thank you very much sir. And the missus wanted me to pass on her gratitude to you for having the chief cover my patrol last night, sir. We both appreciated it immensely.”  
Madeleine smiled warmly. “It was ultimately your chief’s decision, deputy, but you are welcome, and I am glad all is well.  
“Alright, gentlemen, that will do for now. Go about your duties.” Madeleine couldn’t help but notice that while the other men immediately scattered, Javert remained still and solemn, naught but his eyes moving left and right, keeping each and every man under his needling eye.  
“Excuse me, Chief.” The man was startled out of his surveyance by the mayor, and quickly approached, eyes bright. His arms swung in stiff pendulum motions at his sides, and his feet moved like clockwork, never straying from an absolutely straight line forward.  
“Yes sir?”  
Madeleine cleared his throat uncomfortably, a bit put off by just how eager to please his leading officer seemed to be. “May we speak in your office?”  
Up close, the Chief looked exhausted. He was only forty-nine years old, but right now looked like a man approaching retirement. There were dark circles under his penetrating blue eyes, and deep lines had formed in his brow and around his mouth. “Of course, sir. Is anything the matter?”  
The mayor shook his head, trying to keep the worry away from his face. He knew Javert was a proud man, and any pity would cripple him. “No, no. I would just prefer a more private setting.”  
Javert obliged, leading Madeleine into a glass-enclosed workstation just off center of the quad. Even with the solid oak door closed and locked behind them, the men were sitting in a fishbowl, on display to passing officers.  
The Chief waited for the other man to be seated before pulling up behind his desk. “Excuse me sir, but before we get into other things, I need to report our progress in the drug-distribution case. I think—forgive me sir but I’ve discovered something that I know will be of great interest of you.”  
Madeleine leaned forward, trying to ignore the shot of pain in the small of his back. The chairs were dreadfully uncomfortable. He gestured to Javert to continue.  
The older man bent to pull open a drawer, grunting quietly with the effort. When he straightened again, he handed the mayor a sheet of paper. “Deputy Grantaire picked up on a lead downtown. There are a number of homeless shelters there. And it seems that lately, the regular tenants have been receiving prescription medications from the outside. All volunteers have been cleared of any involvement, but sir—I’m afraid we’ve found something rather disturbing.”  
The mayor studied the page in front of him, his heart rate rising. The drug distribution case had been the object of Chief Javert’s passion for nearly nine months, to the point where the man focused on little else. Now he was close to a break, and the mayor’s fear escalated as he read down the report.  
“Grantaire spoke to a few of the homeless, one of whom was taking Doripenem for the treatment of Pneumococcal disease. That’s a form of antibiotic, sir, Doripenem. Obviously the man couldn’t have afforded it. He couldn’t produce a doctor’s slip either, sir. He wouldn’t tell us the name of his supplier, only that this man frequently gave out prescription medicines in that shelter, as well as several others.”  
Now the mayor leaned back, steepling his fingers and doing his best to remain composed. “And are the medicines successful?”  
Javert’s brow furrowed, and he leaned forward in his chair. He dropped his eyes to the floor and sighed quietly. “Yes sir, they have been, nearly all of the homeless receiving medication are doing very well. But the fact still stands that they should be seeing a doctor and paying for them, or at least getting government help! Whoever is distributing these prescriptions is a threat to the very thing that this city stands for!”  
Mayor Madeleine raised his eyebrows, looking bemused. “Forgive me if I sound cynical, Chief, and I don’t mean to tell you how to do your job. But as long as this….good Samaritan, would you say? As long as he is doing no harm, and people are being helped, I see no reason to interfere. It sounds as if he’s paying for the medicines himself, yes? Have there been any reports of stolen pills in any local pharmacies?”  
The Chief’s mouth was set in a thin line, pressed hard enough together to make it look as though the man had an old scar slashed across the middle of his face. “No sir, none. It’s suspected he uses aliases to get them filled, a different name at every pharmacy.”  
Madeleine turned the page in the report, and felt a cold fist clench his insides with an iron grip. An overwhelming desire to flee bit at his heels.  
The second page of the report was a sketch. It was exceptionally detailed, from the wild curls on the freelance pharmacist’s head to the clubbed chin. The artist had even gone as far to draw the reflective light into the eyes which, had the picture been done in color, would have been a deep, buttery brown.  
The mayor lowered the folded page to look at his chief. The other man wore the expression of a man in the middle of a ferocious inner conflict; he seemed physically pained, and for the first time that Madeleine could remember, his fervid blue eyes were staring straight into his own.  
An ugly mix of fear and fury rose like acid in the mayor’s stomach. Still he forced himself to remain resolute under the chief’s gauging eye.  
Javert sighed, and turned his gaze heavenward; the hand clutching the report shook enough to make the paper whisper. “Sir, I….”  
He was still looking upwards, as if he might find the answers to his inner turmoil scribbled on the water stained ceiling panels. The harsh lighting turned his blue eyes opaque, like twin glasses of water.  
Mayor Madeleine watched him, and took pity. The man in the sketch bore an uncanny resemblance to himself, and this fact would be immediately recognized as soon as the report was filed. It would become known that the very man responsible for upholding this city’s morals and guiding lost souls down the straight and narrow was the same man handing out prescription drugs to those unable to pay for them.  
He felt no guilt in what he’d done. He acted solely out of concern for those he cared for, and damn the cost. Because of him, there were people out there still strong enough to work for what little they could, and take care of their children.  
“Tell me what you are thinking, Chief Inspector.”  
The man was fighting a violent war with himself; that much was plain in his rucked and weary face. His back was straight as a board, and accurate lines could be drawn from the set of his shoulders, but his eyes looked old and tired, and unless the mayor was imagining it, they were wet with tears.  
“I am thinking, sir, that you are a good man. I am thinking that I have been grooming our young officers for months on this case, and not once could I have possibly imagined…..but there is also the honest fact of what must be done.”  
A muscle in the chief’s jaw jumped and danced, and a moment later all signs that he had been teetering on the edge of an emotional breakdown vanished. He sighed, and cleared his throat, and reached out a hand towards Madeleine. His face was a terrible, unreadable mask.  
Feeling physically ill, and yet still very much self-justified, the mayor relinquished the report back into Javert’s hands. He tried to mimic Javert’s mask-like expression, but he was a much softer man, less accustomed to swallowing his emotions, and he found it enormously difficult.  
“Very well. It is only right that justice be served, and I could not think of a better man to see it done. You must file that report immediately, and feel no guilt for it. I can only hope a less public man will be able to continue my work.”  
The only evidence that it pained the chief to follow his orders was in his eyes; they welled up again and tears threatened to spill over, sparkling like the clearest pools of water and yet so dark.  
Madeleine gripped the aging policeman’s upper arm in one strong hand, and squeezed it amicably. “Ah, Inspector. There’s something that’s always intrigued me about you, in all the years we’ve worked together.”  
Javert swallowed hard, fighting the quiver in his voice. “And what is that, sir?”  
The mayor smiled. “That you somehow manage to be the most unassailable man to have ever worn the badge under me, and yet you possess such an inexplicably tender heart.”  
The compliment took the officer off-guard immediately; his chin trembled and he gave the mayor only a stiff little bow in response. He then turned to take his leave, no less formal than if he’d been reprimanded instead of praised.  
He had only just crossed the threshold of the little office when Madeleine spoke again. “Oh, Inspector? Is there any chance we’ll see you at the Christmas party tonight? It’s just this precinct, and it promises to be a good time. At the ABC, do you know it?”  
Javert did not turn around. With his eyes cast downwards again, he mumbled, “Yes I do, sir. But I am not sure if I—if I could possibly attend. It might be…difficult, sir, under the circumstances.”  
Madeleine frowned, running a hand through his wild curls. “I completely understand. Forgive me, that was insensitive. But if you find yourself capable, I think a bit of socializing, a couple pints, might do a world of good. I’d certainly be glad to see you there.”  
“Yes sir. I will try.”  
Without another word, without another glance, the Chief Inspector left and closed the door behind him. Knowing the glass walls still left him fully on display, the mayor did not let his guard down entirely. He only allowed himself a moment, eyes squeezed shut, body suddenly exceedingly tired, before exiting the sad and silent office himself. 

₩₩₩₩₩₩₩₩₩₩₩₩₩₩₩₩

Chief Inspector Javert stood in the doorway of the ABC, and stamped his feet against the cold. He pulled his woolen hat down over his ears and shivered; the softly falling snow settled in his grey beard, and festooned his eyelashes.  
The street was lifeless except for this one bar. Streetlights turned the snow a dull orange, casting bulking shadows in the shape of snowed-in cars across the road.  
Every time the door swung open, admitting another jolly group of three or four, the quiet was shattered by drunken laughter and booming music. Javert scowled, checking his watch out of habit and shaking his head at the fact that so many of the patrons were already fall-down drunk, when it was only just coming up on nine o’clock. He blew hot air into the cup of his hands and for the third time since he’d arrived fifteen minutes earlier, seriously considered getting back into his car and going home. All the young officers were going to be in there, wanting to have fun and drink themselves silly, and having a stodgy, stiff old chief there would only ruin things. They’d only poke fun and whisper about him where he really couldn’t hear.  
“Chief! Hey, Chief!” Javert turned, and nearly bolted for the street upon spotting who it was calling his name.  
Grantaire and Coufeyrac might’ve once been little more than beggars, pickpockets at best and burglars at worst, but most criminal thing they’d ever done was snatch the wrong wallet and wind up working under the Mayor, in Javert’s command. It was only by Madeleine’s interference that they hadn’t gone to jail.  
Ah, but then there was the blonde fellow swaggering towards him now, bouncing on his heels and grinning like the Devil had passed him over. Enjolras; no last name, a life-time runner of the streets, no older than twenty-four and the most notorious people’s protestor across three counties. He was the worst cliché to ever spend time in lockup. He burned flags and he held rallies, and he’d even once had an effigy of the Chief tarred and feathered in the center of town, in a particularly creative show of antagonism for the police department. He’d gone to school with Grantaire and Coufeyrac but had refused all of Mayor Madeleine’s invitations into a more legal and productive way of life.  
Javert straightened his back and planted his feet at shoulder’s length, crossing his arms over his aging but still powerful chest. He felt less authoritative in civilian’s clothes than he would have in uniform, but he was a commanding figure none the less; he had a few inches on the boy and years more fighting experience.  
“Hello, now, Chief! I’m not here to cause any trouble! I only wanted to join a couple of friendly officers for a pint! That’s not illegal, is it?” Enjolras mimicked Javert’s stance, his fawnish curls glowing like a sacrilegious halo under the streetlights. There was a tricky gleam in his eye Javert had burned into his memory; he had vowed for years to snuff that dangerous light right out, to teach the impertinent bastard once and for all that being a smartass got you nowhere, especially anywhere his badge had jurisdiction. He hadn’t done it yet.  
“Nice suit! Got a date tonight?”  
Before he could think, Javert brushed at some snow settled on the front of his suit jacket, where his coat hung open. There was a bit of a fray on the lapel pocket; it was the only suit he owned, and was old and had been improperly washed. Too late, he realized he’d given Enjolras another opportunity to humiliate him.  
“Ah well, it’s no secret those government jobs don’t pay too good. Hopefully your company won’t mind, ay? Or have you finally taught your Blowup Betty to talk?”  
Instead of taking a swing like any self-respecting man might have done, the chief arranged his features into what he prayed was an impassive expression, tugged irritably at his worn cuffs, and felt his face turn almost beet-red.  
Enjolras laughed like his crack at Javert had been comedic gold, and seized his opportunity to slip past the older man into the bar.  
Javert kicked at a bit of snow, furious at himself for not having the guts to snap that boy’s nose sideways. There was no way he was going to go in there now, not where Enjolras would be regaling the whole precinct on his slick number on the chief, a man none of them felt obligated to like anyway.  
He stumbled out of the way of a young couple trying to enter the bar and stomped through the piling snow in the direction of the squad car he’d borrowed for the night. A burst of raucous laughter escaped the swinging door as he stepped down off the curb, and the most hateful part of himself imagined that he was the butt of the current joke, that Enjolras and the others were in there busting their guts over their stupid, lonely old chief, that crotchety sonofabitch.  
He had his key in the lock when another voice called out to him. “Inspector!” Javert knew who it was, and hesitated, but only for a moment. Then the car door was open and he hunched down in the seat. The leather was bitterly cold. He was drawing his seatbelt across his lap when the Mayor caught up.  
“Inspector!” The man was out of breath, and his hair was a wild grey thicket; in this light, for the first time, Javert could see streaks of white appearing at the temples. Madeleine was a good deal taller than he, and had to almost kneel to be at eye-level . The gentle smile he gave his chief nearly broke the older man’s heart. “Inspector, where are you going? I’m sorry I was running a bit late, but the party has only just started! Come inside!”  
Under a long tan overcoat, Madeleine was wearing a maroon silk shirt and black tie, and his trousers looked fine as well, tailored especially for him. The overcoat looked like suede.  
Horrified at the thought of how shabby, how silly he must look in his cheap wool suit, dressed more like a professor than a man of the town, Javert tried to close the car door without another word to the mayor. Madeleine wasn’t having it. “Why, Javert! Whatever is the matter?” He had an unyielding grip on the door, so much so that the chief could barely move it.  
Summoning up the courage to meet the man’s eye, he tried to smile offhandedly, as if he’d only just left the stove on at home. He pulled the seatbelt over his lap. “I’m sorry to have you go to all this trouble, sir, but I’m afraid I can’t stay. You see, I—I must—I mean, I’ve just remembered I—” Nothing. He couldn’t think of a single excuse to use other than that he’d been frightened away by a boy exactly half his age.  
With that same kind smile on his face, Madeleine bent a knee, getting his pricey trousers wet in the snow. Javert was about to raise a protest when the mayor reached across him and unlatched his seatbelt.  
Just for a second, the man’s shoulder was pressed into his chest, his mad-scientist’s hair tickling his bristled chin. Hardly thinking anything of it, Javert inhaled deeply, and was remunerated with the perfume of evergreen needles and wood smoke. Then Madeleine drew back, totally unaware, and shrugged, his smile growing into a coaxing grin. “There now. Nothing’s stopping you!” He pushed himself back onto his feet, brushing the snow from his knees, and held out his hand. “Please allow me the honor, Chief Inspector. You seem as if you could use a good shot of bourbon.”  
Javert accepted the mayor’s hand, marveling that he could feel its warmth even through his gloves. “Thank you, sir. I apologize for acting so foolishly, I’m afraid I’m not…accustomed to…such places. I mean I don’t—I’m not used to such a large group of people, sir.”  
The mayor clapped him on the back. “Well that’s all right! You know all the boys, and if it will make you feel better I’ll keep to your side all evening. How does that sound?”  
As the two men made their way back up the walk to the door, Javert found himself nearly unsteadied by the mayor’s compassion. Surely he hadn’t forgotten what happened back at the precinct earlier that day? Certainly he realized that if—no, when—Javert sent in his report, his entire political career would be ruined, and he would be sent to prison?  
“Now! Rules first, Inspector. I must insist that tonight you do not once address me as ‘sir’. My name is Madeleine Fauchelevant, I am a man same as you and you must call me Madeleine. And I will call you Emile. This is a party after all!” He shouted this last, as the door was pushed open and they were pulled into bar by reaching hands and shouts of greetings.  
Javert had barely recovered from the shock of being addressed by his first name by the time the two reached the counter.  
The ABC Tavern was an old bar, run out of the back of a greasy spoon and crammed with mismatched tables and chairs the owner, Jean Prouvaire, collected from dumpsters and antique shows. There was a torn-up pool table at the back but no sticks or cues, and the jukebox in the corner would only play straight for seven and a half minutes, before it had to be kicked hard to get going again. A platform built of sagging two-by-fours stood in the very center of the open room, set up with a microphone and an analog television set bolted to the wall above it, so anyone who wanted to could sing karaoke on Thursday nights. Two army buddies of Prouvaire made the band on guitar and drums.  
The bartender was Azelma, a woman not much older than Enjolras who had inherited the tavern after Chief Javert arrested her parents for a number of petty robberies. She was a plain girl, pale-faced and with hair like Hell’s fire. She fixed the chief with an uncaring look as he sat upon a stool beside Madeleine.  
“I’d like an apple brandy, please Azzie!” The mayor shouted over all the other voices. “And what for you, friend?”  
Javert held up three fingers. Azelma nodded, her expression stormy. He had never been much of a drinking man, but were he to get through this night, he would need it.  
“I’ve seemed to have scared off all your deputies, Emile!” Madeleine indicated two tables way in the back, where eight deputies, Grantaire and Coufeyrac included, sat heavily guarding their drinks, some of them already far into their stupors. Javert winced at the mayor’s use of his Christian name, but was grateful none of the boys were too close. He didn’t see Enjolras.  
When Azelma returned with their brandy and whiskey, she told Javert his sour was on the house. “Seems somebody here likes you, or at least knows a good bribe, “she cracked. Madeleine thanked her, paid her for his share, and she went away.  
Still scanning the crowded bar for Enjolras, the chief downed the whiskey in one swig. It burned all the way down, and warmed his belly.  
“You ought to go a bit slower, my friend. It wouldn’t do to have you unconscious on the floor, would it? Did you bring a car?” Madeleine’s face was lined with concern. He was only sipping at his brandy, and had barely touched it before Javert ordered a second three-finger of malt.  
Emile, as the mayor insisted on calling him, nodded, actually smiling a little. “I borrowed one of the squad cars from the precinct. They know I have it, but I trust you to drive me if I have too much. I don’t plan to, and I’ve always been a man to hold my liquor, s—Madeleine.” He gulped down the second sour, closing his eyes to relish it. He leaned back against the bar, and Azelma placed another drink on the counter behind him.  
Madeleine frowned at it. “Azzie, who’s paying for these?”  
Azelma shrugged, pulling at a stray strand of her hair. “A paying customer. Said to keep the chief liquored up, on him. Said it was a Christmas present.”  
Javert was swaying on his stool in time to the music, which had changed from a bass-charged number from the Red Hot Chili Peppers to slow jazz. His eyes were still scanning the crowded bar, with there was an odd expression on his face.  
“Are you looking for someone?” asked Madeleine, steadying the officer with a hand on his shoulder. Under his palm, he could feel Javert’s muscles tense up at the touch. “Emile?”  
The policeman turned in his seat to face him and nearly toppled from it; the mayor moved swiftly and caught him, not without knocking into the table closest to the bar. He apologized to the guests sitting there, drawing curious looks. He had his arms wrapped around the chief’s broad shoulders, straining to keep him upright.  
“Madeleine! Madeleine, what are you doing, I’m alright! I’m alright!” Javert’s speech was already a bit slurred, but he was able to help himself back up to the bar. Once he was fully on his seat again, his face lit up like the mayor had never seen it do. He pointed at the ceiling. “Do you hear that? The music, do you hear it?”  
Madeleine nodded, keeping his hand on the Chief Inspector’s forearm. “Yes I do. Do you like Eartha Kitt?”  
Taking just a sip from his third whiskey sour, Javert closed his eyes again, and swayed his head in time to the jazz. “Oh just listen to it. Just listen to her voice, it is unlike…anything…..do you hear it? She’s timeless, Madeleine. Absolutely timeless. Eartha Kitt— what?”  
The mayor had been watching him, watching the way his face had opened up, how the music had teased an almost-smile from the corner of his mouth, and couldn’t help but chuckle happily. “You never cease to amaze me, Emile. I had you pegged for a lot of things, but never a jazz man.”  
Javert took a gulp from his glass, wiping a bit of whiskey from the corner of his mouth and lowering his eyes. “I am a lot of things, sir—um, M-Madeleine. That is true. And I wanted—”  
“Well, Chief! You’re still here!”  
Emile’s heart sank into the pit of his stomach, as he felt a firm hand clap him on the back. He looked up to find Enjolras, along with three of the younger officers from the precinct, surrounding his barstool. “Enjolras.”  
The tow-headed boy seemed to be halfway to blackout. He stood with his feet wide apart and was partially leaning on two of his companions. “D’you enjoy your Christmas gift, Inspector? You seem to be doing quite well, how many have you had?”  
Javert frowned, and peered a little blearily at his glass. “Three, but, it was you?”  
Madeleine stood suddenly, and pulled the glass out of the chief’s grasp. “Come now, Emile. I think it’s best we be getting you home now. These boys have had their fun and I assure you—“ he met Enjolras’ eye with a grave stare—“ they will answer for what they’ve done.”  
Enjolras sneered, and led the other three boys away from the bar, disappearing again into the mass of people. He turned back briefly to flip Madeleine the bird.  
“First thing Monday morning I’m arresting that cocky sonofabitch, Mads. I will.” Javert had helped himself down from the bar stool, swaying a little on his feet. Now the Eartha Kitt song had faded into an acoustic version of some chart-topping pop hit.  
Madeleine smiled, bemused by the nickname the policeman had given him. Had Javert been sober, the very thought of speaking so familiarly with any man above his rank and paygrade would have horrified him. He kind of liked how it sounded.  
“And I will back your report one hundred percent, Emile. Are you aware that boy put something in your drink? I suspect he paid Azelma to keep the alcohol flowing and to spike each one. It’s a shame, I had such high hopes for her. Here, put your arm around me, and I’ll help you walk.”  
Javert did as he asked, groaning as the world tilted and whirled; Madeleine’s face was just a fuzzy outline, and the music sounded like a mad circus, like someone was playing the 1812 Overture at 78 RPMs on a gramophone with a busted horn. The mayor pushed through layers of people, practically carrying the Inspector on one arm.  
The pair had nearly reached the door, which had been propped open despite the cold, when another voice spoke out on a microphone. “Whaddya say we call our own Chief Javert up on stage, huh? I hear he’s quite the songbird, lads!”  
Madeleine turned back. Coufeyrac and Grantaire were standing up on the platform, with the two boys who passed as the tavern’s band. Grantaire was holding a saxophone, of all things, and Coufeyrac had the mike.  
“C’mon, Mayor man! Let the old man sing! Let ‘im let off a little steam!”  
Javert let go of Madeleine and allowed the grasping hands to pull him to the center of the room, his feet dragging against the battered wooden floor. Raucous cheers erupted as Coufeyrac and two others—Madeleine recognized them from the precinct, Combeferre and Feuilly, junior officers and just about fall-down drunk— hefted their senior officer onto the makeshift stage. They allowed him to stumble about a bit before grasping both his arms and planting him dead center. Emile had a stupid, oblivious grin plastered across his face, even as the boys yanked his suit jacket from his shoulders and tossed it into the crowd. Whatever it was Enjolras had paid Azelma to put in his drinks, it had rendered him unwieldy.  
Madeleine pushed his way through the wall of bodies, fearful for the man now under the control of boys who would enjoy a chance to humiliate the chief a little too much.  
“Whaddya say, gents? What should we have the good Inspector sing for us? Look at him, he’s all yours!” Coufeyrac draped an arm over Javert’s shoulders as much as their height difference allowed, and planted a sloppy kiss on his grizzly cheek. The Inspector’s eyes widened and he nearly toppled backwards, narrowly saved by Madeleine’s stable hand.  
“I need to take this man home! Stop this at once! He’s in no condition—”  
Javert snatched the microphone stand from Coufeyrac’s hands and hoisted it high over his head, very narrowly avoiding Feuilly, who overestimated his dodge and went down hard on his ass. The chief let out a boorish roar, swinging the stand about as if it were a javelin. The crowd cheered and laughed and egged him on, echoing his screams as he cried, “Testify! Testify! Goddamn it boys, testify!”  
He brought the microphone down again, wielding it like an ax, and feedback shrieked. Madeleine managed to hoist himself up onto the platform and went for the chief, grabbing a handful of his shirt even as the older man was speaking close to Grantaire’s ear. Boos erupted from drunken mouths and another man, a stranger, jumped up on the stage. He was a solid bloke with at least a decade less of life in him than the mayor, and he stood nearly six inches taller. He gave Madeleine a hard shove backwards, and sent him flailing on his back onto a table. More cheers erupted as the good mayor struggled back onto his feet to find Emile nearly bent double with laughter.  
The old man’s face was apple-red, and tears were squeezed from his eyes in such a rare expression of delight that Madeleine, sure to be bruised and sore in the morning, could not help but feel joy himself. It was a rare thing at the precinct to catch the chief with any other expression on his face but firm disapproval or, in the mayor’s case, eagerness. To see him as he was then, completely uninhibited and disheveled, it was like looking at a new man.  
Grantaire leaned in close to the drummer, then to Combeferre. Javert wrapped his bearish hands around the mike and pressed it close to his lips, legs spread wide like it was 1955 and he was Elvis.  
The drums rumbled, the saxophone screamed, and Chief Inspector Emile Javert made love to the microphone.  
Those burly fingers found his collar and undid the first three buttons; a gleam of sweat had already coated his throat. Madeleine stood four officers deep in the crowd pushed up to the stage, rhapsodic and completely knocked for six. This was the same man who’d practically crawled into his office that morning on his hands and knees, seeking penance, allegorically licking the mayor’s shoes.  
“I feel the irons on my wrist and lament it’s come to this  
When they hang me from the gallows tree, "Such as life," they'll hear me hiss,  
I'm not the reddest handed bandit here but I'm the one who'll take the fall  
This smoking gun's been smothered by the long arm of the law”  
He was unbelievable, unbelievable! Madeleine was in a grand state of shock, staring up in disbelief at heavy-lidded eyes, hearing the low and throaty voice which slipped like butter through the pair of bashed up speakers.  
“The Chaplin says the end is started and your Judgment has begun  
Prayers can lead to God's forgiveness for all the Foolish things you've done  
You've got tonight to find some peace of mind before you leave this world  
I hope and pray that I may never get what I deserve!  
Take me down to the river Preacher, take me by the hand  
Take me down to the river, Mend the soul of a broken man,  
Drown me in forgiveness wash these bloody hands of mine  
Take me down to one last river  
Let me testify!”  
Oh how he hoped Enjolras and those boys were still here! Madeleine laughed with delight, clapping along to the pounding beat. Javert’s knees jerked and rocked like Elvis reincarnated, and he was grinning, not from drink now but from the music, stroking the steel mike stand with one hand and snapping his fingers with the other. Sweat shone on his face in four colors, illuminated by neon.  
“Yes I believe in God's benevolence,  
I have seen with my own eyes,  
in the river just outside the gate,  
Sunday sinners get baptized.  
I will pray for my redemption,  
but I'm quite sure that he won't hear,  
I've never had that watered cross,  
trickle in my ear!”  
There was no room to move but they all were dancing, even Madeleine, watching Javert’s hips jerk and sway inside that awful wool suit, watching his feet jump, watching the way he slowly closed his eyes when the drums retreated, beads of sweat caught in his eyelashes and a fever caught in his soul. He felt a fond tenderness for the man, a kindred joy that, for all intended purposes, Enjolras’ cruel trick had allowed this to happen. He never would have imagined a man such as Javert having such a fire, such a possession of passion buried deep. Madeleine laughed again, exhilarated.  
“The chaplain's face it grew sadder,  
he said "you've not been christened son?"  
No, I said, and I hung my head,  
is there nothing to be done?  
If I could get down to that river,  
can't you see how cleansed I'd be?  
The latest lamb, in God's hands.  
My soul would be set free.  
Take me down to the river Preacher, take me by the hand  
Take me down to the river, Mend the soul of a broken man,  
Drown me in forgiveness wash these bloody hands of mine  
Take me down to one last river  
Let me testify!”  
Madeleine suddenly remembered his brandy, still sitting there at the bar. With the heat in the room, his throat was parched. And there was something about this new beast, this brand new man that he couldn’t explain but it sent something inside of him soaring, tumbling, fizzling like a shaken bottle of champagne.  
On the last words of the second chorus, Javert looked down at him. Emile’s hair had fallen down in front of his eyes, dark with sweat; his shirt was too, nearly drenched, and as he shook in rhythm with the music, he freed two more buttons from their loopholes. When he’d caught the mayor’s eye, he winked. Madeleine coveted his drink.  
The crowd whooped and hollered, jumping up on the tables and throwing bottles, clapping all as one in a thunderous pulsation, stomping their feet on the litter-strewn floor. Grantaire was playing the rockstar on his sax, bending low and arching back as Javert raised his hands and threw back his head, rolling his hips like this was his last chance to dance.  
“They take me to the river bank,  
two guards and the chaplain.  
The moonlight shines on the holy tides,  
my prayers have been answered.  
I take my sodden walk to Jesus,  
all piety and grace.  
The guards release my shackles,  
they cannot read my face.  
The deepest breath that I can take,  
as I plunge under the water.  
The chaplain has the kindest ways,  
he could have been a whole lot smarter.  
Two kicks and I'm traveling,  
beneath the muddy waters gleam.  
By the time I take a second breath,  
I'm a hundred yards downstream!”  
The drums slowed again to a one-two beat and now everyone was snapping their fingers. He bowed his head, kissing the mike’s booze-drenched metal and holding tight to it with both hands. When he closed his eyes this time and opened his mouth, it was in an expression which did not fit the words he sung. The words were gospel, the impression was ecstasy; a voice, a body, celebrating the delicate, death-defying balance between the secular and the sensual that makes southern Sunday services the sweet, sweat-drenched experience that it was.  
Oh god but it was hot in there! Madeleine felt sweat trickle down the middle of his back, and the beginnings of fatigue were settling into his bones, but Javert wasn’t finished yet.  
The inspector howled into the microphone, tossing his head from side to side like a man possessed, and he reached a hand out for the mayor. Madeleine hesitated only a second and allowed himself to be pulled up onto the stage. Emile threw his head back again and shook himself from head to toe; his shoulder slammed hard into Madeleine but the man didn’t care. He was crying now from laughter and was exhilarated; he was leaping at the neon lights, inches from Javert as his chief of police sang the chorus two more times.  
“Take me down to the river Preacher, take me by the hand  
Take me down to the river, Mend the soul of a broken man,  
Drown me in forgiveness wash these bloody hands of mine  
Take me down to one last river  
Let me testify!  
Emile’s hair bounced and sprayed sweat everywhere as his head bobbed and the mike stand was dipped and spun like a partner in the tango; Javert had his eyes squeezed shut and was smiling like he knew Madeleine was still watching him.  
“Take me down to the river Preacher, take me by the hand  
Take me down to the river, Mend the soul of a broken man,  
Drown me in forgiveness wash these bloody hands of mine  
Take me down to one last river  
Let me testify!  
Testify!  
Lord let me testify!”  
The drummer threw his sticks out at the patrons of the ABC as they whistled and bayed and applauded. Madeleine felt his knees buckle and sat quickly down on the edge of the stage, panting and sweating, his heart beating fast enough to challenge a hummingbird. His face ached from smiling, but he couldn’t stop it.  
Above him, Javert had his arms raised above his head, and was cheering right along with the officers and their friends. His eyes were cast upward into the lights, his hair pushed back and dripping, his shirt half-undone, drenched, and his face absolutely radiant. When he jumped down from the platform he nearly fell over, and this made him roar as if it were the most hilarious thing anyone had ever done.  
The boys clapped their chief on the shoulder as each wandered past, and he was basking in it. He was hardly able to stand, and when Madeleine had gotten his bearings he joined him leaning against the far wall, head lolling as if he were already on his way to sleep.  
“That was magnificent, my friend! Absolutely amazing! Incredible! I couldn’t believe it was really you!”  
Javert grinned lazily, body slouched against the wall. “Thank you, I haven’t done that in years, it about did me in. But it was great fun, wasn’t it? Ha ha!”  
Madeleine pushed himself away from the wall and stood in front of Javert, leaning in until the two men’s foreheads touched. Now that the noise had died down, he was able to hear Emile’s sharp intake of breath at the sudden intimacy.  
He spoke in a low whisper, his every word blowing Javert’s hair away from his face. “I never believed you had such a thing inside you, Emile, and I am supremely sorry for that. Now come on, let’s get you home, alright? You must be exhausted.”  
It was Emile’s turn to be stunned, but he agreed, holding back the tears that this time had nothing to do with hilarity. He allowed Madeleine to half-carry him to the door and outside, where the squadcar was waiting under a blanket of snow.

₩₩₩₩₩₩₩₩₩₩₩₩₩₩₩₩  
The Chief Inspector’s home away from the precinct was an old brick-fronted apartment building on the east end of town. It wasn’t glamorous, but neither was it decrepit, and while Madeleine locked the car, Javert gazed up at it with an odd sort of expression of fondness.  
The walk had not been cleared, and upon the mayor’s insistence, the nearly insensible inspector was carried right up to the door, folded across Madeleine’s arms like a new bride.  
“This is absolutely ridiculous, I can walk,” whined Javert, though he marveled at the apparently effortless way Madeleine had plucked him up.  
“Certainly you can, but I cannot be held responsible for any broken limbs should we test that theory. May I have your keys?”  
The stairs were a puzzle; by now Javert was hardly able to keep on his feet, and the flight wasn’t wide enough to accommodate both men at once.  
Not too much later, Madeleine and the prostrate chief arrived at apartment number 601.  
“I hope you don’t mind a little bit of a mess, I don’t usually have anyone over.”  
Locking the door behind them, Madeleine inspected the place and felt a twinge in his heart. The whole front room was bare, save for the navy blue couch and crooked side table set close to the fireplace. The walls were white, and bore not a single photograph or painting.  
“I’ll just start a fire, shall I? Warm things up a bit?” offered Emile, rubbing his forearms and shivering. The mayor softly smiled at him, and nodded.  
The kitchen was set back into an alcove on the split level. The floor was roll-out linoleum, yellowed and worn almost patternless. It was clean, impeccably scrubbed, but terribly empty; out of curiosity Madeleine opened the cabinets to find a single mug, one water glass, one plate and one set of silverware on the shelf. There was an empty food bowl on the floor, being nosed at by a small tortoiseshell tabby. She looked up and mewed at him, and he plucked her up into his arms.  
“Well now, what’s your name? You are a beautiful girl,” Madeleine crooned. She was nearly lost under his gentle hand, but began to purr almost immediately.  
“Oh, sorry, that’s Gemima. She’s just a kitten, she’s not usually so friendly with strangers.” Javert had returned from the living room, his sleeves rolled up and with a smudge of soot on his nose.  
Madeleine kissed the little cat between her ears. “It’s an honor, Lady Gemima. Now, let’s see about that fire, shall we?”  
The vacant front room was already much warmer; the fire crackled and popped under Javert’s care, and the couch was cozier than it looked. The mayor allowed his host to settle in first before joining him.  
“I won’t stay long, I wouldn’t want to impose,” he offered, studying the way Emile sat close, with his feet tucked up under him, like a child. The older man shook his head slowly, sinking bit by bit into the back of the couch.  
“No, not—not at all, stay as long as you like. Get warm.”  
Madeleine allowed himself to recline a bit, resting his pounding head. He could barely muster the energy to speak. “That truly was a singular thing you did tonight, at the ABC. Absolutely tremendous.” He turned his head; Javert had curled up right up close to him, a remarkable feat for a man his size. His head drooped nearly to the mayor’s shoulder.  
“Hmm? Oh, yes, thank you, I—I enjoyed it very much. But of course, I had some help.”  
“Never mind that. Enjolras had his just dessert tonight. I only hope he was around to see it.”  
“Yes….”  
Javert’s eyes had drifted closed. Madeleine sighed, and, moving gently, urged him a bit to the right in order to stand. A mere second later, Emile was awake again, looking terribly vulnerable in his prone state. “W-w-where are you going? You’re not leaving?”  
Madeleine smiled. “Just getting the blanket. Sit up for a moment.”  
He did as he was asked. Once the blanket was retrieved, Madeleine lay down upon the couch, feeling his heart in his chest racing just as it had done at the bar. He patted the space beside him.  
“Come, Javert. Rest.”  
For a fearful moment, Emile’s face was unreadable. Then he sat once again, and stretched his legs out; his feet stopped an inch or so above the armrest, while Madeleine’s were propped upon it. The greying officer wriggled until his back was flush against the mayor’s chest, and he could feel his warm breath on the slope of his neck.  
“Are you comfortable, sir?”  
Madeleine chuckled lowly. “Of all times, dear Emile, now is certainly not the appropriate time to be calling me ‘sir’. But yes thank you, I am quite comfortable. Do you mind--?” He slipped his arm under Javert’s and around his narrow waist, resting his hand on the other man’s stomach.  
Emile sighed contentedly, pulling the blanket up over both of them and settling deeper into the shape of Madeleine’s body. Without a word, he felt for the man’s hand and held it in his own, their fingers whispering together. Moments later, he was asleep.  
Just a few feet away, the fire danced and flickered and filled the room with heat, and the familiar smell of woodsmoke.


End file.
